The Pensieve
by Araviel
Summary: Various scenes viewed by a certain young wizard through the magic of the Pensieve...
1. Winged Horses

Winged Horses

_The mist clears... _

There was a distinct difference, Emmy reflected, between those who rode Winged Horses and those who bred them. Take the girl in front of her, for instance; this young lady was pale and polished, complete with the beige jodhpurs, tailored jacket, kid gloves and superior expression that was trademark of a Rider. Emmy, on the other hand, had dirt on her face and trousers, sweat on her brow, weatherbeaten and far from alabaster; and was mulling over in her mind the rather interesting metaphor that the girl before her was the greenhouse plant to Emmy's wild bracken; she was a fake outdoorsy person, clean and cultivated, whilst Emmy was true.

"I'm here for a lesson," the Rider announced. They were the same age, Emmy and she - ten or so - but it didn't feel that way. Both girls seemed and acted older than their age, in different ways; but the real contrast was that this client addressed Emmy as an inferior, whereas they should have been equals. "To whom do I go?"

It was a deliberately pompous way of putting it, and that infuriated Emmy. This girl was deliberately trying to make her feel small; and she had no right to do that. Emmy was forgetting that at ten years old, one feels much older that that - so she judged the Rider rather too harshly, scowled inwardly but plastered a smile on her face. "You go see whoever you've got that lesson with," she replied evenly. "Ma'am."

The Rider sniffed, whether in approval or its opposite, Emmy could not tell. "I have a lesson with Vance," she said. "Emmeline Vance."

The smile remained while Emmy's heart and soul groaned. This was what she hated about living in Vance and Jones Winged Horse Stables; wasting time on clients who weren't worth it. Humans, she had decided long ago, were really quite overrated - if only she could work with the horses alone, and truly horsey people...

"That's me," she said. "I'm Emmy - Emmeline Vance."

"You!" The Rider didn't look quite so polished now - in fact, she looked decidedly ruffled; it seemed that she was not accustomed to that feeling, and did not like it at all. "Aren't you a little too young to be teaching?"

"Maybe, ma'am, but I've been riding all my life." Emmy had recited this many a time, mainly to disbelieving clients both young and old, all with the same attitude as the Rider. "I was born in the saddle."

The Rider looked appalled.

"Not - not _literally_, ma'am." Emmy said hurriedly, fighting the urge to laugh.

But the Rider's stern expression did not even twitch. "I do not think you are competent enough to teach me," she proclaimed. "Shall we go for a hack instead?"

Could it get any worse? "Very well, ma'am." said Emmeline, and she hurried to saddle up the stables' grandest Abraxan.

There was no way of denying it; this Rider was certainly a talented one. She didn't have Emmy's instinctive ability, but Ethelberta Bones, as she had turned out to be, had an effortless, authoratitive command over the giant palomino, Nalda, who was infamed as the most troublesome horse in the whole of the stables.

"You've worked here all your life?" asked Ethel, as she prefered to be addressed - but not by a mere worker like Emmy. Ethel had kept up a relentless stream of questioning throughout the whole of the hack, as they soared over golden corn fields with splashes of scarlet poppies - it should have been glorious to watch the world go by beneath them and chat; but it had been more like an interrogation than a conversation.

"For as long as I can remember, yes." Emmy replied dutifully.

"Then your relations must own the stables?"

Emmy sighed. "Yes." she said shortly. But Ethel persisted.

"Who?" she demanded.

"My mother and father own it - they're in partnership, business partnership, with a family called Jones." Emmy's mind wandered to her best friend and fellow Stable worker, Hestia Jones, who was a year older and attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Nowadays, she saw far less of kind, rosy Hesty as she liked to be called, and Emmy felt a slight resentment towards Hogwarts for taking the girl who seemed like a sister away from her, apart from during the holidays. It was the summer now, and Hesty was thankfully, gloriously home - and Emmy was wasting time on this Ethel when she could be riding side by side with Hestia instead. But no - she wouldn't think about Hogwarts... it was too painful, because -

"You are how old?"

"Ten years old, eleven come January." replied Emmy mechanically.

"We are of the same age, then," Ethel commented, with a rare smile. "So we shall be first years together at Hogwarts."

"You - you've got your letter, then?" Emmy said, trying to keep her voice even.

"Oh yes, ages ago... why, haven't you?"

So it had all been just wishful thinking, Emmy thought, despairing. She had been convincing herself that the pivotal letters, one of which she had not received, were late in being distributed, that soon, anyday now, in fact, there would be a yellowing letter on the doormat, just like there had been for her mother and father...

"No," said Emmy quietly. "I haven't got one." She stared at knuckles, white as they clutched the reins too hard, as though they could supply her with a solution.

"But the Vances are pure-bloods, aren't they?"

Emmy nodded. "But Hestia Jones is half-blood and _she _was accepted. So I really don't think it's anything to do with blood -"

But Ethel had not listened to a word of her argument. She was staring disdainfully at Emmy, as though she could not bear to be riding next to a girl who was a -

"Squib." Ethel said. "You're a _Squib!_"

_But exactly what she was, he never knew - because the memory had come to an end. He longed to tell poor Emmy that it would be alright, that the letter would arrive - whether because of a second decision or because it was merely delayed in the postage, he did not know. Emmeline Vance would attend Hogwarts and become a most talented witch, he was dying to assure her that very thing; but he couldn't. And he would never inform a young Emmeline of her fate; that she was to rise in status in the world, almost forgetting the Emmy who worked contentedly on a low-key Winged Horse stables, many years ago. Emmeline Vance would join the Order of the Phoenix, pledge to do all in her power to defeat Voldemort, battle in the First War... and come the Second, would be murdered in her own home at the hands of the Darkness. _


	2. Flypaper

**Flypaper**

The "Ottery St. Catchpole General Stores" was owned by an ancient wizard named Henrik Puckle, who was fast losing his grip and his memory. He employed Muggles, since they were the majority in their mostly non-magical, slightly magical community, and so the General Stores catered mainly for Muggles, but also for wizards; though, of course, the certain shelves containing Anti-Horklump Powder and Doxy Antidote were invisible, inaccessable to the everyday customers; in other words, everything out of the ordinary that the shop sold was unplottable.

Mr. Puckle had long since stopped serving in the Stores, and so on the day in which our story takes place - a dull, drizzly Saturday in August - a young, spotty Muggle named Arnold and known as Arnie was in charge of the till instead, and a younger, pale girl named Luna and known as Loony had a problem with (not magical, but) Muggle pesticides...

_The mist clears..._

Luna Lovegood didn't mind dressing as a Muggle; not because doing so created a rare occasion where she did not stand out amongst her fellow wizards and witches; but because she loved to wear ridiculous clothing without those puzzling, derisive stares and whispers she received from other girls, as they surveyed her latest outfit. No - many of the magical community were as unaware that they appeared to be mad when wearing Muggle clothing as Luna was everyday, whatever she did, said or wore. She knew that some people called her a Luna-tic and various other (barely) clever nickames, but she didn't care - it was never on her mind. And so today, Luna was at her merriest and most serene as the chimes signalled her entrance into the General Stores, and she wandered in - wearing a tutu, spotless wellington boots, a macintosh and elbow length, ballroom-style kid gloves. And a Panama hat.

Arnie couldn't help but stare, and feel more than a little nervous; this girl, sixteen or so, whoever she was, had an infamous reputation amongst the inhabitants of Ottery St. Catchpole; once in a while, she would stray into the Village Hall, or the park, or the General Stores - though previously, Arnie had not encountered her. His fellow workers, all spotty youths of similar age and either gender (called, for instance, Billy, Adrian and Annabel) had told amusing tales of "the Loony in the green wellies".

And today, Arnie was faced with facing her.

Then again, she seemed fairly harmless. She was amiably strolling around the General Stores, stopping to pick up imaginery items from equally imaginery shelves. Mad as a hatter, evidently, he concluded; but dangerous as a butterly. He went back to his "work" - reading the Weekly Catch of Catchpole (a fishing magazine - it was, after all, Arnie's main interest and only passion).

"I don't think you should stock this, you know..." She sounded as away-with-the-fairies as she looked. Nevertheless, despite her dreamy tone, Arnie jumped, dropped his paper and jumped again - the Loony was brandishing a packet of Flypaper in his face.

"Huh - what!" Then he remembered Mr. Puckle's Golden Rule; that the customer was always right. "Why not... erm... Madam?" Was it out of date, if that was possible, for flypaper? Was it, perhaps, not PC? Or was she just off her rocker?

He knew which of the three he supposed was the case.

"Because Flypaper kills flies..." she said, as though it was not common knowledge - merely a far-fetched theory that people were apt to deny...

"Yes, Madam." Arnie affirmed, (amazed at Arnie's astounding alliteration). "It is a powerful adhesive that, when a fly comes into contact with it, glues it to the paper so that it can then be removed and disposed of..."

Her large blue eyes were drinking in every word, but yet not quite focused. "Yes," she agreed. "So the fly generally ends up dead, then. Well, that's why I don't think it's a very nice idea to stock it."

Arnie merely gulped and gasped simultaneously.

"You see, the Crumple-Horned Snorkack's diet mainly consists of flies and asparagus, and while asparagus is plentiful, flies will die if you sell this Flypaper and the Crumple-Horned Snorckack will, too. They're already endangered - besides, it's not exactly pleasant for the flies, is it?"

She said this all in one, long breath then turned, returned the Flypaper to the shelf and wended her way towards the door. At the sound of the chimes once more, Arnie breathed a sigh of relief, and put the receiver down - he had been dialling the second nine in nine-nine-nine.

"Just wait 'til Annabel hears this!"

_And the mist filled his vision once again._


	3. Arguments

**Arguments**

_The mist clears..._

Ginevra Molly Weasley, at just seven years of age, had an unnaturally high opinion of herself, and prefered to be called Ginny. Of course, she was a particularly precocious sort of little girl; her first word, "Why?" had come to pass at just six months, and by one year she could hold a decent conversation with you, if she considered your personage important or interesting enough, that is. She certainly _did _have a high opinion of herself, though perhaps it was justified. She was the only daughter in a family of seven children, and the youngest at that. She was also a rather pretty little girl, with flaming hair and blue eyes; and she knew it. But considering herself to be the best thing since sliced Cauldron Cake, and the centre of everyone's universe was an irritating quality to some, but necessary if one is to grow up amongst a family of very loud, very boisterous, elder children. Ginny's confidence certainly meant her voice was heard.

Today, though, Ginevra Molly Weasley had let the other Weasleys hear her voice a little too much, perhaps - and that very thought occurred to her, for the first time ever. Her bottom lip wobbled as she recalled the disasterous day; she had argued with everyone in and around the Burrow. It had started with her mother, as Molly and Ginny had had a frank difference in ideas in what Ginny should wear to play in the muddy orchard; Ginny had vouched for her new, silky-shell-pink dress whilst Mrs. Weasley had opted for a more practical outfit. The latter had won the battle, putting the former in her place. Ginny hated losing anything, and so was in an uncommonly bad mood. When she had lost at their feeble attempt at Quidditch, to a team comprising of Ron and the twins, she had stormed and cried and stamped her little foot until Mr. Weasley, immersed in his study of the "Toaster", became unimmersed and, unfairly, sent Ginny to bed. If Ginny hated anything more than losing, it was injustice; so she whined to her father and then to Bill, her eldest brother, who became equally tired of her, and bodily threw her into bed. This resulted in a bumped head and a little sympathy from Molly; and so she was allowed to play in the orchard with Percy. But this also soon turned to quarrel; for Percy was quite contented with reading. Ginny moaned and groaned but he ignored her; so she hit him with his own book. She was dismissed to her bedroom again - and argued with Charlie on the way there, just for good measure.

Yes; disasterous was the only way to describe this miserable Tuesday, she thought, as she lay, flat on her back in her bed, staring up at the vibrant orange ceiling - the room had used to belong to Ron. The reminder that everything she owned, excepting her beloved new dress, was second hand, together with the accumulating guilt as she mulled over the day in her mind, was enough to send her into rare, choking floods of tears.

There wasn't much she could do about it now, she decided. Except... apologise.

If there was anything Ginevra Molly Weasley hated more than losing and injustice - or even losing and injustice put together - it was admitting she was wrong.

She put on her satin-y silky little dress, with its flounces and puffed sleeves, and performed a little pirouette in front of the mirror. She wasn't generally this feminine, she thought, or rather "_girly"_, as all seven-year-olds refer to it - in fact she was a tomboy. But Molly _had _brought her the dress, and she loved it because it was something of her own - her very own -

She pirouetted again, tripped over her own trainered feet, and collapsed in a heap on the threadbare rug.

"_Very _nice..." sniggered the mirror. "_Very _pretty. A born ballet dancer, aren't you, dearie..."

"Shut up." snapped the small girl in retort. "I'd like to see _you _do better! Stupid mirror!"

"Insults!" mocked the looking-glass in reply. "Well, in that case, _dearie_, I'd like to inform you that pink doesn't go with ginger hair."

"It's not ginger!" Ginny protested, with a soft, pathetic sniff; then she spoiled the effect and stuck out her tongue. "It's red. 'Sides, I was only_ joking_."

"As was I!"

There was a long, sharp silence as Ginny stared defiantly at the mirror and her reflection stared back, equally defiantly.

Then -

"I'm sorry, dearie." said her mirror quietly. "Didn't mean to offend, but perhaps that weren't clear enough. But go downstairs and apologise to'm all, and you'll feel a long way better."

Ginny knew she should, and had decided to after hearing her mirror's kind advice; but nevertheless, she repeated her favourite saying. It had been, after all, her first word, and her character, views and personal philosophy of personality seemed to be built upon it. A sweet smile spread across her little freckled face, and she asked, so innocently;

"Why?"

_Enter the mist, and his heart groaned as he was lifted out of that memory. He had so wanted to see more..._


End file.
